


Typesetting

by apprenticenanoswarm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: And just terrible in general, And to develop better taste in men, Animal death (mentioned) (raccoon), Castiel has no moral compass just Dean Winchester and wow that’s a problem maybe, Castiel is feral, Castiel will murder your employees and steal your possessions, Crowlean - Freeform, Crowley and Castiel being queer and useless together, Crowley is 5 percent hopeless romantic 95 percent mean little shit, Crowley is desperately painfully maddeningly in love with Dean and Castiel, Crowley needs a hug, DEMON RIGHTS, Destiel - Freeform, Graphic Violence, I ship these three but good grief they are terrible for one another, M/M, Pining, Please stop trying to murder each other long enough to have a conversation boys please, Profound Bond, Takes place midway through season who cares canon is stupid, crowstiel, references to dismemberment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:21:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28587906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apprenticenanoswarm/pseuds/apprenticenanoswarm
Summary: In which Castiel suspects Crowley may be a useful source of information in his quest to understand his confusing feelings about Dean Winchester.(And he is HORRIBLY WRONG.)
Relationships: Castiel/Crowley (Supernatural), Castiel/Dean Winchester, Crowley (Supernatural)/Dean Winchester
Comments: 7
Kudos: 67





	Typesetting

There was a heart in a jar on Crowley’s desk.

It was still beating.

Castiel vaguely wondered who it belonged to and whether they wanted it back.

He tapped the side of the jar with his fingertip. A tiny, snakelike creature slithered out of the left ventricle and blinked at him before slithering back in.

Humming, he turned to regard the rest of Crowley’s office. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen it; all that seemed to have changed in the interim was that the amount of paperwork stacked on and around the desk had tripled and a whiteboard depicting a quickly-etched graph featuring a descending line and the words MY FUCKING PATIENCE MARTIN!! along the x axis had been mounted on the wall.

Crowley himself was, according to the demon secretary Castiel had just destroyed, off walking the hellhounds and would not be back for an hour. Plenty of time.

After taking one last glance at the heart – there were two tiny serpents now peaking up at him – he went over to the safe.

“We’ve got every ingredient for this spell but one,” Sam had said. “Translating it took work, but I’m pretty sure the general meaning is ‘something a demon loves’.”

Dean had scoffed. “You know that’s like asking us to find a fish that breathes Fanta, right?”

“Maybe it could mean ‘something a demon considers precious or valuable’,” Sam had allowed.

“Perhaps a trophy or a weapon,” Castiel had reflected, remembering the safe he’d noticed the last time he’d entered Crowley’s domain, and had departed on his mission shortly thereafter.

The safe was kept securely locked with a series of intricate spells, none of which stood a chance against an angel of the Lord.

“What have we here?” Castiel murmured to himself, plucking out various objects.

A fragment of a human’s skull.

A jewel-encrusted knife.

A fist-sized meteorite.

Several dozen yellowed envelopes bound together with a red ribbon.

An old, broken compass.

Three pornographic magazines.

None of the safe’s contents looked or felt particularly remarkable and there was no way of knowing which one was especially precious to Crowley – or if any of them were. To be prudent, he took the lot.

0

The spell necessitated a bonfire deep in the woods, which put Dean in a very good mood.

“Like this,” he told Castiel, demonstrating how to pierce a marshmallow with a stick. Castiel suspected he could have worked it out on his own – the mechanics were not sophisticated – but he knew how Dean liked teaching him things, so he smiled and copied him.

“I need someone to hold the mirror,” said Sam, studying his leather-bound tome. “Gotta get the timing just right. One minute after sunrise and it won’t work.”

There were several steps leading up to the spell’s finale and Castiel assisted the brothers dutifully as the hours rolled by.

“Any of these might work,” he said at last, presenting the contents of Crowley’s safe.

They tossed them into the fire one by one. The knife, the skull fragment, and the meteorite did nothing. When, however, the flames touched the envelopes, there was a bright green flash and the smell of honey and rot filled the air.

“Yes!” cried Sam, and Dean ruffled Castiel’s hair in teasing approval.

Writing began to appear on the mirror’s surface. By the time the sun crept over the horizon, the Winchesters had the information they needed.

“Good job, man,” said Dean, slapping Castiel’s back, and handed him the plastic bag containing what remained of the marshmallows. “Here, you finish ‘em.”

As they drove home, Castiel amused himself by seeing how many he could fit in his mouth at once.

0

A few weeks later, long after their latest job had wrapped up, Dean was hosing the mortal remains of a luckless raccoon off Baby’s left front wheel (poor bastard, nasty way to go) when _something_ , something hot and red and shapeless and way too fucking strong, lifted him off his feet and slammed him into the ground.

A rib cracked loudly. All the air was forced from his lungs. His vision blurred and he blinked up at the sky and the newly-formed silhouette above him.

“Where are they?” said Crowley, a foot resting on Dean’s chest, his voice dangerously even.

“W-what the fuck?” he choked.

Crowley stepped down and another rib cracked. Dean _screamed_.

“The letters. The compass. Where?” he said, still calm, hands in his pockets, as though this was an everyday summoning and in a moment he’d go back to either baiting Dean or batting his long, girly eyelashes at him.

Only Dean knew that wasn’t going to happen, knew it from one look at him. His face – his vessel’s face – wasn’t moving like it should have, no microexpressions, nothing. No body language, either. It had never been so apparent that what Dean was talking to was a costume. And apparently Crowley was so severely pissed off that he wasn’t even trying to wear it properly today.

Shit.

As always, awareness that his life was in very real danger got Dean’s temper going.

“Get off me, asshole,” he snarled.

_Snap_ went Rib Number Three. “You’ve got two hundred and three more, Squirrel, and I’ve cleared my schedule.”

“You motherfu-…”

Snap. Snap.

He was going to puke. He was literally going to puke with pain, and he was on his back so he’d probably drown in his puke, and Christ, what a stupid way to die. Crowley? Of all things? Of all (fine, fine) people? They were practically allies these days. And over what? Some fucking paperwork Cas had stolen? Seriously?

Wait. Cas.

“Cas!” Dean roared as another rib creaked under Crowley’s heel.

It was almost instantaneous. There was a blinding light, an inhuman roar, and suddenly the weight was gone from Dean’s chest. He gasped like a fish stranded on the riverbank before sitting up and trying to get his bearings.

There was red smoke everywhere. It stung his eyes. Where were they, where – there! A short distance away, Castiel and Crowley were squaring up, the former surrounded by a maelstrom of furious grace.

“How dare you touch him? In my presence, how dare you?” Castiel said in a voice many, many times too big for Jimmy Novak’s body. Instinctive dread almost sent Dean foetal.

The red smoke was densest around Crowley – _was_ Crowley, Dean realized, leaking out of his vessel like helium from a punctured balloon. It billowed and shifted and if Dean gazed at it too long, it took on weird shapes, tendrils and broken wheels and open, screaming mouths.

“You touch _my_ things, I touch _yours_ ,” Crowley hissed, vessel trembling with rage.

It occurred to Dean that he might be about to watch his best friend and his best frenemy rip each other apart, and that he didn’t really want that to happen even if the latter was a complete shitfuck rib-snapping mean little asshole.

“You have gone too far this time, demon. I-…”

“Enough!” Dean barked. God, drawing in the air to shout really fucking hurt. “Crowley, it’s my fault Cas stole your shit, man. Take it out on me if you gotta.”

The smoke twisted through the air as Crowley’s jaw tightened. “I won’t need to take it out on anyone, Squirrel, if you’ll simply inform me as to where you’ve put them. The letters _and_ the compass. You can keep the rest.”

Faint thread of desperation underneath the anger, there. The extent to which Dean had screwed up began to dawn on him.

“We burned them. Needed to. For a spell. Sorry. Only option.”

(Maybe not the only option, but certainly the most convenient, and they’d been pressed for time, and they’d saved a lot of lives, so why was Dean feeling so damn guilty?)

Crowley blinked, all traces of anger melting away. “What?”

“We had a problem, we needed a spell to fix it, the spell wanted to us burn your letters. They’re gone. Still got the compass, though. I can go get that for you. Alright? Understand? Can we all calm the fuck down now, please?”

Jesus. Now Crowley looked like he was going to faint. Eyes glazed, complexion grey. What _was_ today? 

“You burned my letters,” he said, without inflection.

“You have your explanation,” Castiel growled, moving to stand between them, fists clenched. “Now begone. You have tried my patience enough for one day. Dean is hurt. If we come to blows, know that I will not be merciful, demon.”

(Little special to be white knighted by a wholeass angel of the Lord, sure. There might have been just one or two butterflies in Dean’s stomach. There might even have been the occasional wet dream that involved Cas shielding Dean from danger while Dean got to lie back and stare dazedly up at his rear).

Crowley – uncharacteristically, unnervingly – was silent.

Then he vanished.

“Dean,” said Castiel, turning to him, all sweet anxious blue eyes, before rushing over.

Dean grunted as his ribs knitted themselves back together under Castiel’s hands. “M’fine. Don’t worry. Fuck. What the hell was that all about?”

0

Castiel fretted.

Dean was upset. And not because he’d been injured. He sustained injuries every other day.

No, the reason for Dean’s quietness all through dinner and then all through breakfast seemed to be guilt.

Which made no sense to Castiel whatsoever. In the course of the Winchesters’ feud with Crowley, far greater wrongs had been committed on both sides than the incineration of a few scraps of paper. Additionally, the cause had been a worthy one. Doing good often necessitated sacrifices, often necessitated betraying erstwhile allies. They had protected the innocent at the expense of the guilty. That was their job. Their role.

So why was Dean upset?

Of course, when Castiel asked, he insisted that he wasn’t upset, and then set about angrily washing the dishes. Inevitable. Frustrating, nonetheless.

Castiel decided to seek answers from the only other person involved in the incident.

“I need to talk to Crowley,” he explained to the latest secretary, holding it up by the neck.

(It hadn’t occurred to him to ask Sam. Sam, in general, rarely occurred to him.)

“Have you made an appointment?” the demon choked.

He killed it and went wandering through Hell’s corridors in search of another.

Eventually, he was directed to a small storage room, in which the King of Hell sat with his head in his hands.

“Are you busy?” Castiel said, because Dean had told him it was the polite thing to do, even if it was self-evident that the desired conversationalist wasn’t the least bit busy.

A low growl: “Piss off, pigeon.”

Entering and shutting the door behind him, Castiel said, “Your minions were disinclined to direct me to you. I annihilated them. You’re welcome.”

Crowley raised his head. His vessel’s eyes were red. Not infernal red; the pale, pathetic red of a human who’d been weeping.

“Why,” he rasped, “the galloping fuck would I be grateful for you slaughtering my staff? I can barely find competent people as it is.”

Castiel squinted. “You pride yourself on being a businessman. An efficiently run business should not retain those who impede critical operations.”

“By what truly benighted logic does your stalking me constitute ‘critical operations’?”

Walking over to the lurking king, Castiel said, “We are business partners. I am, in your own words, an ‘investment’. Whatever fleeting anger you’re feeling at the moment, you will want to maintain semi-amiable relations with me and with the Winchesters. Accordingly, my finding you and setting matters right between us is very much a critical…”

“ _I’d have let you have them if you’d asked_!” Crowley shouted, fire erupting from his eyes as he leapt to his feet.

Slowly, Castiel said, “I doubt that. Their loss has distressed you.”

Panting, Crowley opened his mouth and shut it again, then rudely pushed past Castiel and stormed out the door.

“Where are you -…?”

“Come.”

0

They ended up in a bar in France.

“Wine. Lots of it. Speak to me and I’ll rip out your tongue,” Crowley said to the bartender as he handed over enough money to fund the development of a private space shuttle.

Castiel frowned. “I don’t like wine.”

“I don’t care what you bloody well like.”

For the first hour, they sat in silence, Crowley grimly sipping while Castiel watched a line of ants making their way over the windowsill.

“Did Squirrel send you?” Crowley finally asked.

“No.”

“You just decided to come apologise of your own accord? I find that highly unlikely.”

Castiel ran his fingers over the wooden countertop, enjoying the texture. “I’m not here to apologise. I didn’t do anything wrong. Stealing from you was necessary and I’d do it again.”

At that, Crowley actually laughed, albeit nastily. “Never change, do you?”

That was perplexing. Castiel knew for a fact that he’d changed considerably in recent years.

He reached into his trenchcoat pocket and withdrew the compass. “Here. We didn’t need this. You can have it back.”

Crowley stared at it for a moment, expressionless, before returning his attention to the middle distance and taking another sip.

“It’s about one hundred years old, I note,” Castiel went on. “At the time, I imagine it would have been quite expensive. Maybe it still is. Moreover, as an object in and of itself, it’s well-crafted. Beautiful, even. But that’s not why it’s precious to you, is it? This is.”

He pointed to the word delicately engraved on the compass’s side: _William_.

When Crowley didn’t reply, he said, “Who is William? Did he write the letters?”

Silence.

“Alright. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it back,” said Castiel, and made to pick it up.

Crowley’s grip would have snapped Jimmy Novak’s wrist had Castiel not been there to reinforce his bones.

“You’re a nosy piece of shit,” the demon rasped, picking up the compass and sliding it into his pocket. “William was a soldier. English. He died in 1917.”

“Quite a few soldiers did. What made him special?”

“I loved him.”

Castiel considered this. “In what way?”

“In what… what way do you _think_ , you stupid bird?”

“Love takes many forms. I read as much in one of the Cosmopolitan magazines that Dean pretends not to buy. If I recall correctly, they listed agape, pragma, philia, storge-…”

“We fucked, Cas. Frequently. And wrote each other poems, and gave each other gifts, and had picnics in a meadow, and all the other revolting things one does when one is infatuated. It was a nauseatingly embarrassing time in my life and I’m glad to have matured beyond it.”

Castiel hummed, resting his chin in his hand. “Curious, then, that you value the mementos so highly.”

“More wine,” Crowley snapped at the bartender.

“I presume William is dead and in Heaven?” 

“Yes. Died at twenty-seven.”

“You didn’t take his soul?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I _loved_ him. Prick. God, why am I even talking to you? Not like you’d ever understand.”

Castiel glanced around furtively, as though Dean might appear at any moment, then said in a conspiratorial fashion, “What was it like? Being in love? How did it feel?”

Crowley looked at him for a moment, then groaned and slumped down onto the bar, muttering obscenities.

0

Four hours of badgering later, Castiel was finally getting somewhere.

“The thing is,” Crowley slurred, now on his fiftieth glass of wine, “the thing, thing is, right, that sometimes… sometimes you just have to look yourself in the mirror and admit that you’ve got a type.”

Castiel nodded. He had found a notebook and was recording everything Crowley said, so that it may be added to the secret stack of reference material relating to romantic and sexual relationships he kept hidden under his bed in the bunker. “Someone with whom you are emotionally compatible.”

“No, no. Nothing as dignified as that. Your type is the sort of person who makes you stupid.”

History had demonstrated that Castiel and Dean were, on average, eighty-three percent more likely to make terrible, terrible decisions when they were in one another’s company or reacting to something the other had done, so Castiel smiled broadly and made a tick next to one of his notes.

“Your type,” Crowley went on, “is what the worst and most pathetic parts of you are drawn to. Oh, you can pretend you have standards. You can tell yourself that what you look for in a partner is wit, reliability, common sense, a healthy acceptance of their own sexuality. You can tell yourself that you’re attracted to qualities you admire.”

Crowley’s fist slammed down on the bar so hard it left a dent.

Eyes like rubies, the demon hissed, “But it’s a _lie_. Because there you’ll be, minding your own business, getting through life, and then _he_ walks in. With his swagger. With his cheek. With his incessantly insecure no-home eyefucking. And you’ll take one look at him and think ‘Oh, that’s a terrible idea’.”

By all that was holy, had Castiel finally met another sentient entity who actually understood his predicament? In the shape of Crowley, no less?

Pen flying across the page, Castiel rumbled, “And it _is_ a terrible idea. No matter how brave, or righteous, or kind he is. It would destroy you both.”

“Exactly!” Crowley cried, throwing back the fifty-second glass. “And then… then… then he fucking leaves. Leaves you to go off and save the world, or save his country, or… whatever. Some other worthy fucking cause. And you’re alone. And you knew you would be, you knew all along, and you’re still not prepared.”

Here, their experiences clearly diverged. After thinking for a moment, Castiel said, “What happens if he doesn’t leave? Or if you go to save the world with him?”

Drained, at last, of whatever manic energy had kept him going thus far, Crowley flopped onto the bar, his expensive tie slipping into a small puddle of wine. “Dunno. Prob’ly something horrible. There’s no winning when it comes to your type. Only slightly more or slightly less humiliating ways to lose.”

Well. That wasn’t very helpful. Castiel flipped through his notes. “I’m in love with Dean. That’s why I’m interested.”

“I know, Feathers.”

“My strategy thus far has entailed quiet devotion. Acts of service. Companionship.”

“How’s that working out for you?”

Castiel bit his lower lip until it bled. “The other day, I was relaying certain facts pertaining to the history of apiaries. Beekeeping. While I was talking, he smiled at me. The amount of strength I had to summon to keep from begging for permission make love to him right there was such that as soon as our interaction concluded, I flew to Antarctica and spend several hours reducing glaciers to needle-sized fragments with my bare hands. I suspect I single-handedly undid years of combined effort on humanity’s part to reverse climate change.”

“Ah. Not so good, then.”

“No. Not so good.”

Crowley raised his glass. “To handsome men. May they rot.”

For a while, they said nothing, each lost in his own thoughts.

“May I ask you another question?” said Castiel.

“Shoot.”

“How do I perform anal sex?”

A pause.

“I mean,” said Crowley, setting his glass down, “I can show you, if you like.”

“That would be helpful, yes.”

0

Later, when Crowley was inelegantly sprawled across Castiel’s chest and snoring, Castiel continued to process the day’s revelations and, eventually, reached a conclusion.

“Bwuh-hrggh?” went Crowley as he was rudely jostled out of what Castiel had heard Dean refer to as a ‘sex coma’.

“I want to apologise for burning your letters,” Castiel informed him. “If Dean wrote letters to me, I would do everything I could to keep them safe and their loss would be nigh unbearable, even if I knew it was necessary. I have wronged you. I am sorry.”

Settling back down, Crowley said, “It’s fine. Don’t matter. What I had with Will… well, it’s in the past. I’ve moved on to greener pastures.”

“Oh? You’ve since allowed someone else to make you stupid, then?”

A dark chuckle. “Yep.”

Approvingly, Castiel patted his head. “Good. I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m sure they’re very nice.”

“They’re not. They’re a nightmare. They’re a hopeless, oblivious nightmare.”

“Oh. That’s a shame. But they are, nonetheless, your type?”

“Exactly my type.”

“Then I hope it all ends well.”

“Hah! It won’t. Trust me.”  
  


**The end**


End file.
